


in the quietness of thought

by omphale23



Series: ode to duty [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consent Play, M/M, Painplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-21
Updated: 2010-09-21
Packaged: 2017-10-12 02:12:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,905
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/119644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omphale23/pseuds/omphale23
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is not a state of affairs that makes for a stable relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	in the quietness of thought

Sherlock thinks back. They've been doing this—whatever this might be, and that is a rather large part of the difficulty he intends to solve with this little game—for roughly five weeks. Four weeks and two days, and in that time he has used various instruments of punishment on John at least three times each week, and twice the Friday before last. This behavior has left bruises and cuts that John later had to explain as accidental three times by Sherlock's count—once to Lestrade, who hadn't looked nearly as convinced as Sherlock previously assumed he would be. In addition, he has ordered John on eight separate occasions to pleasure himself while Sherlock watches. As of yet—as of right now, at least—Sherlock has completely failed to understand what the point of any of it might be.

He knows he wants permission to touch John gently, to coax him into revealing himself. Sherlock thinks he might want more than this, might want John's hands on him, might want—he wants any number of moments, many of them new and unconsidered. He wants time to determine whether these moments might string together into a life, into months and years. He wants to stave off boredom. Sherlock wants, with a sharpness that makes his brain squirm at the uncomfortable detail, to be able to wake in John's bed the next morning.

As far as he can observe, John has noticed none of this.

This is not a state of affairs that makes for a stable relationship. Recently—early this morning, sometime in between wondering whether Anderson really did have an unnatural attachment to dinosaurs and recalling that they'd left the kettle on the night before— Sherlock realized that a stable relationship is also something to be desired. As such, and because it's becoming increasingly clear that John doesn't know what _John_ wants, let alone what Sherlock has decided would be best for them both, he's decided to speed the process along.

Maybe, if John is more easily convinced than Sherlock expects, he'll still have time to write up some notes on the exploration of human sexuality by way of reversed power roles. He's been meaning to do that anyhow; the sociological dynamics of it are _fascinating_.

Right, no time like the present to begin. Sherlock has spent most of the afternoon wrapping up a pointless case that Lestrade had thrown him as additional punishment for a small fire in the evidence lockup, which was not at all Sherlock's fault—how was he to know that that particular combination of chemicals was highly combustible? That was why it was an experiment, after all—and now he's settled at the kitchen table to wait for John's return.

John's tread on the stairs is slower than usual—bad day at the clinic, then, he'll be wanting some quiet and perhaps a nap, but Sherlock hasn't time for that if he wants to finish reading up on the classification of fibers using tensile strengths—and he doesn't bother to hang his coat at the door. If Sherlock were anyone else, he'd offer a cup of tea and a listening ear.

Sherlock is not anyone else. He gets to the point.

From the look on John's face, the tea might have been a better choice; he'll keep that in mind for next time. "Sorry, come again?"

Sherlock repeats himself, even though he hates it. He does any number of pointless things for John, in a vaguely alarming change of behavior from his usual preference. Another reason to speed this whole process along; they can't just be discussing the weather and the merits of corporal punishment every night of the week. Sherlock hasn't that kind of time to spare.

"You heard me. I need you to hit me. With this." He's got a reasonably serviceable riding crop in his hands. Not as nice as his own, but John had thrown a bit of a fit at the suggestion that they use the same equipment that Sherlock used for his non-ambulatory test subjects. Sherlock had drawn the line at wasting substantial amounts of money on what was at best a passing phase for both of them, and this had been the compromise.

Negotiating can be so _tedious_. Sherlock really does hate this bit, with all the explaining and the asking and the discussion of vocabulary and boundaries. It's dull, but John insists on being slower than Sherlock knows that he could be. He's muttering on about the case—which Sherlock has already finished, he's done with the case and yet they're still talking about it, why are they still talking about a case that isn't even a case anymore—until suddenly they're not, because John has changed the subject for his own indecipherable reasons.

Sherlock is trying very hard to be patient. He's not very good at it, but he _is_ trying, a bit. He's been practicing, just because it makes John smile at him more often.

"Oh, do keep your terms in order. I've not asked you to tie me up. Just hit me a few times. I can hold still on my own; it can't possibly be that painful." It is, in fact. Sherlock has felt it before, and it is bloody awful but that's not the point just now, and he ignores the twinge of memory. He has better things to do.

John has apparently begun whatever other people do in place of thinking. He's gawping a bit, a very unattractive look on him, comparatively speaking. It takes a long time, but that's permissible; Sherlock's scheduled the whole evening, unless Lestrade brings another case to their door, like they've acquired some sort of stray cat in under-starched trousers.

Which he won't be bringing tonight, because, yes, fine, small fire, thirty-eight pending cases, minor internal affairs investigation. Details. Sherlock is no good with details, not the boring sort of ones. He hasn't the patience for rules and regulations and notices with KEEP OUT printed in block letters above a biro-scrawled, _This means you, Sherlock._

While he waits, Sherlock starts planning for how he'll have John gradually realize that he's got the whole thing backwards, what he really wants is to take Sherlock to bed and–oh, right, John has to agree first. Rules. They have rules to this. Always with the rules, it's as bad as boarding school sometimes. John is talking, that means they're almost done with this bit, the bit before. Sherlock starts listening, in case he needs to interrupt. "Right. As long as we've got that clear. No."

Well, that's sorted, now on to the renegotiating so that they can start from the beginning again. "So I'll just take my shirt off and we'll—" They need supplies, a list, lists are good. Riding crop, cell phone for emergency texting, bandages, silk ties, biscuits for later, John, blindfold—no, two blindfolds would be even better—that very nice cock ring he picked up last week, lockpicks...wait. "What do you mean, no?"

"I mean, no. I'm not interested in hitting you with anything." This is no time for jokes. They never discussed jokes; Sherlock's not good with them and most of John's are terrible versions of _a drunken pit bull walked into a bar_ or some such nonsense. If there are going to be jokes he's not sure that this whole relationship thing is a good idea after all, though it's a shame to waste all the planning and preparation—and John's still talking. Yes. Of course he is. "Well, not at the moment. Keep putting noxious chemicals in the toaster, and you might persuade me to change my mind."

Oh for the love of—it was an _experiment_ and it wasn't as if they used the toaster that often, anyhow. And it was nearly two weeks ago; ancient history. John does have an appalling tendency to hold grudges over the most ridiculous things. They should negotiate that—why don't they ever discuss the vitally important questions, like how frequently John stays up to watch horrible reality television when he'd be much better served by spending a nice long evening brushing up on his trigonometric identities, in case they ever find themselves needing to calculate the angle of the shadow of a tree on a medieval courtyard? And Sherlock has a lovely discussion of decomposition in northern climates that John might enjoy. He'll just dig round and—wait, where's John gone?

He was right here a moment ago, and Sherlock is certain they're not yet finished with the fiddly talking bits. He has a plan: talking bits, and then the role-reversal part, after which John will realize that there are all _sorts_ of interesting activities they haven't tried. And then Sherlock gets to wake up in John's bed and commence his lengthy investigations into romantic entanglements and homosexual partnerships.

If John's wandered off to go to sleep, Sherlock is going to wake him back up again. Politely. Perhaps with feathers, or teeth. Both. Oh, yes, both. And perhaps some ice, he's always wondered about the effectiveness of ice.

The bedroom door is locked. Technically, it's John's bedroom door, but Sherlock's room is small and drafty and his bed isn't nearly so comfortable as John's—it's perhaps something to do with the mattress, or the soft sheets that John bought after two months of complaining about his sister's awful taste in bed linens. Whatever the cause, Sherlock has no intention of retreating to the glorified closet he converted into a box room while waiting for John to come home tonight.

He lets John know of his displeasure, and then ducks back downstairs to grab his lockpicks. Next to them is a set of scarves that he'd bought at a magic shop in Brixton while waiting for a thunderstorm to pass, and Sherlock pockets them before he returns to John's door. He settles into a crouch on the hall carpet, and starts twisting at the lock.

Sherlock had been meaning to practice his breaking and entering; this is as good a time as any to work on his speed of execution. "It's for science, John. Don't you believe in science?" On the other side of the door, John continues to insist on irrationality. As long as he's setting up an improving reading program, a review of the importance of hypothesis testing wouldn't go amiss. Sherlock adds it to his mental list, as he keeps pushing at the tumblers, up, two millimeters, then forward one, down three-quarters—almost there, almost.

It's as if John's never even _considered_ the ways that Sherlock indulges his whims and works to improve John's utility on a daily basis. Just this morning, Sherlock cleared the microwave of three temperamental voles and a honeycomb, because John claimed that rodents interfered with his digestion. Relationships were about compromise, weren't they? He was sure he'd read that somewhere. Maybe the textual citation would be out in the lounge—

The lock clicks, and Sherlock awards himself full marks for multitasking. John has been paying attention, though, and there's something—what? Too heavy to be that cardboard box beneath the bed, not the bed itself because that would have scraped the floor quite loudly—must be the desk chair; that shouldn't be too difficult to shift, if Sherlock can't convince John to just open the sodding door already.

"It's not as if I ask all that much." No, wrong tactic, that's going to annoy John. What else? Remind him of their close personal connection, that's always good. "What's a bit of horsewhipping between friends?" What comes next? Think, there's a bit after—reassurance. That's the one. "I promise to still respect you in the morning."

Sherlock holds his breath, waiting to find out if he's worked out the new rules. No such luck. "That would require that you respect me now, wouldn't it?" Damn. He gives the door a sharp shove, and manages to clear enough space to fit his fingers through the gap. Now, if he can just twist the chair out from under, he'll be able to—or not. John's taken to sitting in the chair, which isn't at all fair play on his part. And he's being rude, which is slightly off-putting. "It'd serve you right if I leaned back and broke your fingers, you idiot. Go away, I said I wouldn't and I won't."

A few seconds later, John steps on Sherlock's conciliatory riding crop, bruising Sherlock's fingers and his ego in equal measure.

John goes quiet—he's probably trying to hold in hysteria; it's about the right time for it. That frequent nervous giggling was Sherlock's first clue that they'd got the wrong end of the stick, and now he has four, maybe five minutes before John notices that he's gone.

He only needs half that. Down the stairs, front stoop—they need to get the second step repaired soon, he'll mention it to Mrs Hudson tomorrow—up the alley and over the rubbish bins. Mrs Turner's married ones are fighting over their holiday plans again—there are extra whiskey bottles in the recycling. Sherlock really does need to ask Mycroft whether it would be awkward to bring John to Christmas lunch this year, given the uncertain state of their relationship.

The fire escape is closed, too high to throw himself up, but Sherlock uses the drainpipe anyhow—good thing he added those reinforced bolts.

John never closes his bedroom window tight. Even now, he can't sleep without the noise of traffic, the slight breeze, the hint of an escape route. The heating bills are atrocious, but Sherlock pays them before John gets a chance to see, and they don't talk about it. For all the words in the air, he's finding rather a large number of topics that John simply won't mention, reasons he won't offer, connections he refuses to acknowledge. He's stubborn like that. It's a nasty habit and Sherlock fully intends to put a stop to it soon, once he decides the best way to start the discussion.

The room was clean when Sherlock swept it for surveillance on Tuesday. Mycroft's had his people in since then, but the clock is ticking and when Sherlock folds his legs over the sill John is crumpled in his chair, far too close to hyperventilating. Messy. When he'd agreed to show the flat, Sherlock hadn't known how messy it would all be. He doesn't think he would have changed his mind, but perhaps.

He straightens his jacket and checks that his shoes are unscuffed. John's laughter is beginning to sound a bit choked, which isn't worrying yet but will be in a moment. Sherlock leans carefully against the bedpost and folds his arms, unfolds them, folds them again. He steps too hard on the loose floorboard, which creaks loudly in the same instant that John takes a breath.

He carefully does not smirk when John almost levitates from the chair and does a passable impression of a startled guppy.

John twitches. He's flushed, and shifting in the chair uncomfortably. Statistically, Sherlock's much more likely to get what he wants when John is aroused than when he's angry, and Sherlock wants what he wants. He settles onto the end of John's bed— _remind him of past encounters_ —and once John licks his lips, distracted, Sherlock slowly tips backward until he's stretched out on the duvet— _hint at what might happen next_ —and watches the effect through his eyelashes.

John's hips slip forward and his spine straightens. His breath speeds up. Sherlock tilts his chin down a fraction of an inch and allows himself a tiny, tiny, smile. John's fingers begin to drift toward his growing erection, and Sherlock can taste victory. It really is sweet, like cherries or antifreeze.

John suddenly exhales, slumps over his knees. He stares at the floor, and Sherlock uses the long, quiet moment to roll his neck, stretch the cramped muscles. John sighs again, louder. "You're really not going to let this go, are you."

It's as if he doesn't know Sherlock at all. What a pointless observation; it's beneath the both of them. Sherlock shakes his head impatiently and sits up, stands between John's knees as his hand hovers over John's head. He allows himself the indulgence of running fingers through the rough strands—John needs a haircut, hates it when the ends begin to slip over his collars, but still spends long minutes running his hands over Sherlock's curls, puzzling, that—and pulls a bit, drags John's head back until Sherlock can see his face.

This part, this is bound to be the sticking point. It always was, and the rest has been little more than a game for both of them. Sherlock chooses his words carefully. "If you really don't want to, all you have to say is—"

John's face hardens. He doesn't like being forced, and he doesn't realize that. Sherlock does, he can see it there beneath the surface of John's glare, and he holds himself very, very still. He practices patience, and John is right there, on the edge of something new.

"It's not that I don't—I'm not going to—could you at least tell me why?" Yes. Sherlock could tell him why, could list the many, many justifications until they're both old and gray and bent like trees in a gale. But he won't. Sherlock presses his lips tight together, listens carefully to the words John discards. "It's not our usual," damn their usual, they don't have a usual, will he not just _understand_ already? John catches himself, finishes quietly, "not our usual way of doing things."

Well, that's a bit of an understatement. Sherlock stamps down the urge to smile. It wouldn't be appreciated right now, even he can see that. And he does comprehend that this is difficult for John, he _does_. He'd make it easier if he could. If only because this way, with the dawning understanding and the slow growth of trust and all the other crap John's therapist keeps spewing, takes bloody well forever.

Ah, that was his cue. Negotiation, compromise. His turn to give something up. "It isn't. But I don't like working without necessary evidence, and I don't—" Sherlock stops, unsure. He's not unsure, he's never unsure, John's strange hesitations must be catching or perhaps the climb through the window—damn. Damn, damn, damn, he's forgotten Mycroft's little gift. Sherlock buys himself a moment with honesty. John finds it charming, or at least so he claims. "I don't like acting without knowing the consequences. I need to know what it does."

Sherlock knows what it does. He'd be an idiot not to, to try these toys on John without a full understanding of what they do to the body. He'd be an idiot, and also much, much more of a sociopath than he's ever claimed while sober. What he doesn't understand is the mental edges of it, the feeling of—relief, he suspects. Peace, maybe. That's the word that shows up in the literature. But John never seems peaceful, or quiet, not during and not after. There's something wrong, Sherlock's not doing it right, and for that he needs—this. To know, to reassure. He comes as close as he can. "How it is for you."

John is recalcitrant, as always. He was a lot more pliable when they first met, before Sherlock began pushing boundaries, testing the lines that John would—and would not—cross. Now, Sherlock has the unnerving feeling sometimes that John is _humoring_ him. He doesn't like it, he doesn't like it when John acts as if he needs to explain humanity to a foreign mind. Sherlock understands human nature just fine. It's nasty, and brutish, and selfish, and poorly rationalized.

Making John an exception, he supposes. Another reason to get to the bottom of this connection between them. He waits for John to catch up to the conversation. "It's not like you'll be able to understand, just because I smack you a few times around the shoulders. It's not physical, not really."

And isn't that the world's biggest understatement. It's like calling Mycroft a civil servant—technically correct, but completely, utterly, spectacularly wrong.

Mycroft again. There's no help for it, he's going to have to start over. John would be livid if he ever found out that Mycroft listens in on their conversations. As much as Sherlock would enjoy giving his over-invested brother an earful, it isn't worth his sanity if one of them slips up and mentions the recordings to John later. "Of course it isn't, I'm not stupid." Sherlock sighs and stands up, moving to the window. As he slides his hand over the sill, he detaches Mycroft's gadget and drops it to the floor. Sherlock breathes, "Gladstone," just loudly enough to cover the crunch of breaking plastic under his heel.

John's disappointment is obvious, but Sherlock needs to know. Needs for this to be John speaking, not whatever he's convinced himself Sherlock wants. "I know we don't—we don't talk about these things." Another understatement. Sherlock shakes his head, clears his thoughts. Honesty. Well, enough honesty to accomplish some rather spectacular fornication tonight, and then perhaps more honesty tomorrow, when John has had time to process his worldview shifting. So, a dash of honesty and words that resemble an explanation. "But it leaves _marks_ and there are days when you flinch in the morning. I may not understand but you have to give me a place to work from, John." A lever and a place to stand. It's a start. "You can't simply expect me to act without thinking about the results."

John, being John, completely misses the point. Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes, and eventually—mercifully—he trails off. Before the apology this time, which is better than usual.

Sherlock really, truly, hates repetition. "Shut up, it's not that. Don't think it's—I'm not saying no, I'm just asking for a bit more information. If it bothers you so much, I can find someone else to show me." It's only a small lie, and Sherlock might even apologize for it later, if he remembers. He hasn't apologized to anyone in years; it might be interesting to see if he still abhors it as much as he did when young.

The things he is willing to do these days are maddening, and he doesn't look at them too closely, on the off chance that he has, without noticing, gone mad. Again.

And then John grabs at him, locks his fist in Sherlock's shirt—that's going to wrinkle, and now there's a button loose for no reason and all—and breathes deep. Sherlock looks down, and watches as the fabric creases from the heat of John's hand. Such odd fingers John has. Nothing like Sherlock's, shorter and calloused and still tan, inkstains on the left forefinger, pale crescents of old hurts under the nails.

Stuttering. Under his breath, Sherlock offers a few prayers for calm, as John works himself into a space where he can pretend to have any sort of control in this situation. "No—you can't—you shouldn't—don't." It's possible that if John were to finish a sentence, they'd both drop dead of shock. Even as he thinks it, Sherlock knows he's being uncharitable, but it's been a very long day and he's tired and twitchy and this whole thing has taken far longer than expected. Such a production, just for John to finally give in and admit that Sherlock's been right all along. "If you really need to know, I can—we can—I'll try."

About bloody time. Sherlock's brain has already spun back into gear, forecasting possibilities and constructing paths for them to follow. There are so many different directions this could take, so many options shining in front of him, in front of them both. Sherlock is a little stunned at the freedom of it all, by the liberties he could take. He's so pleased that he could kiss John, almost, and then he has, he's done just that. John doesn't seem to mind. "Right, then. Once more, from the top." He jumps to his feet, dragging John along until they're both standing, face to face. "Or, perhaps not. I think somewhere in the middle is more appropriate."

John leans back, snaps himself to military crisp and there's something new in his voice. The rough edges of someone else. "Fine. Take off your shirt. And trousers." Sherlock makes a note of it for later; he's been meaning to do some research into John's service records anyhow. He smiles at the thought of all the interesting facts about John he'll be learning soon, but his pleasant diversion is interrupted. Ah well. It wouldn't be a game if there weren't rules; he follows orders. "And for the love of all things holy, wipe that grin off your face. You do have a flair for the dramatic, don't you?"

Sherlock matches John's posture, wondering if John's even noticed that he's doing it. It's strangely difficult to stand at attention and strip at the same time, but he does his best. Finally, John looks pleased, gifts Sherlock with a brief touch to skin and a small smile. Sherlock holds his breath for a heartbeat, waiting for John's intuitive leap. He laughs with the anticipation of something new. "You really are insufferable, you know that?"

So close. Right, nothing for it, Sherlock's going to have to actually go through with this. "You love it. You wouldn't let me get away with it, otherwise."

John resigns himself to the change—Sherlock can almost see the decision being made—and picks up the discarded riding crop. "I suppose not. I think this is a bad idea, mind."

Sherlock doesn't wait for the order. He braces himself, hangs his hands around the bedpost, and does his best to relax. Tense muscles only make it worse, and he's not sure how many it will take for John to adjust, for the realization to come. He's taken pain before, and at least this is in a good cause. "Your objections are noted."

Even with the preparation, even with hearing John's shaky breath and the whistle of the crop coming down, Sherlock isn't ready. He flinches, and can't help a gasp as the pain hits between his shoulders. This won't do, he can hear John reconsidering, and Sherlock pushes away the ache and orders his muscles to unclench. He reconfigures his limbs, and turns his head. John looks stricken, and Sherlock firms his voice. "I didn't tell you to stop."

John still wants direction, orders. Sherlock can give him that. He's quite good at orders, in fact, and one part of giving orders is knowing when not to give them. To allow for initiative.

The next flash of pain is quieter, and Sherlock's ready for it, has his mind whirling off in another direction already, waiting for the crack of the leather and John's harsh breathing to melt together. This is not his favorite part, because he knows—has read, understands theoretically—what this is supposed to do. To silence the mind, to slide under and allow reality to happen, to become nothing more than sense and reaction. It doesn't work for him.

He's never wanted it. Never sought such a thing, and Sherlock doesn't see it coming. It's a variable he hadn't considered, an unexpected consequence. But John is worried, and waiting, and Sherlock can't get himself far enough away to ignore the pain and so he accepts it, and everything slows to a crawl. He's inside his own head, but the red-bright-sharp of pain has a sizzle to it that he's not seen before. It's more than pain, it's as if he can hear John's desire to please, his longing for more, his unexpected talent for this.

The gears of his thoughts go silent, and Sherlock exhales.

On his lips is a promise, a prayer, phrases that he can't be bothered to string together. He wants John Watson's name written on his bones, and he can't remember a language to offer the words. Perhaps John hears them anyway. Perhaps not.

Life is all about uncertainty. Sherlock closes his eyes and lets himself fall.

He's not sure how long it takes after that, but the pauses between strokes are growing, the blows skipping and uneven. John's tired, he can feel it, and Sherlock wants to stay like this but it won't work, it won't last. He forces the ending out, and as he does John breaks into pieces. Sherlock isn't surprised. The world comes crashing back, and he allows it to happen. He gives himself only a moment of John's voice in his ear, of hot kisses over sensitized skin.

He's moving too fast, feels the pulls of overused muscles as he lifts the riding crop and spins to push John back against the chair with it. He knows what comes next, they both do, but Sherlock can't remember the right words. Finally, long desperate seconds later, Sherlock manages to grab at some character, some persona composed of arrogance and inertia and able to give John what he wants. He reaches for the ceiling, puts on a show, stretches lean and confident. All of the qualities he knows John loves are right there on the surface, obvious. He smiles, as John tilts his head back and waits for the next thing.

**Author's Note:**

> With thanks to [wihluta](http://wihluta.livejournal.com/), [tricksterquinn](http://tricksterquinn.livejournal.com/), and [caersmane](http://caersmane.livejournal.com/) for beta efforts and encouragement. Eventually I have to get to the porn. I hope.
> 
> The title is again from Wordsworth.
> 
> Comments are welcome either here on on [this LJ post](http://omphale23.livejournal.com/399684.html?mode=reply)


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